


Giving Over

by ladyoneill



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BDSM, Bondage, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dom/sub, M/M, Sexual Content, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:59:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoneill/pseuds/ladyoneill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Realizing he set up Kira, knowing he's losing time, so afraid he's trying to hurt...kill someone (and maybe has), Stiles goes to the one person he knows will keep him under control, contain him, prevent him from hurting anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a one shot set after 3.16. It got away from me and has become a chaptered fic. I can't guarantee I'll write on any kind of schedule, but I will finish it. It was begun before 3.17 but completely jossed by that episode. As I write, I'll add tags. Please read them. This is not negotiated kink. Having a safe word gives Stiles an out he can't take. He _needs_ to be controlled or he might kill someone. If that bothers you, please click the back arrow now. Whether or not he and Peter will develop any kind of loving relationship...I dunno yet. The first part is set in the future.

Naked, he kneels, head bowed, hot tears leaking from his closed eyes. He waits.

There are no chains holding him there, no collar, no leash. 

They're no longer needed.

Just the word, the voice--firm, hard even, yet what he needs. Control given, control gained.

The touch of fingers on the top of his head is light, just a brush, but his breath hitches.

He's pleased or the hand would be hard, the touch painful.

Lifting into the touch, he opens his eyes, focuses on the bare feet in front of him, the strong legs clad in worn jeans. Tentatively he reaches out, touches a knee. When there is no indication he's mis-stepped, he leans forward, wraps his arms around both legs and openly weeps.

Today is a good day.

~~~~~

This is a very bad idea. Stiles knows that, but the fear--the gut-wrenching terror--is driving him. It's been just over a week since he realized he maybe tried to have Kira killed, and he thought he could deal with it on his own, but he's been losing more time. This morning he woke with his sneakers on and they had mud on the soles.

It rained last night. He was inside the whole time.

Or, he thought he was.

He doesn't know where he went, but he's so scared he hurt someone.

Terrified that a body will show up.

That morning he raced to school, frantic to find all his friends, so relieved they were all okay that he nearly had a panic attack. Scott gave him concerned looks. Lydia--calculating ones.

She'll figure it out. God, if he...if he kills...God, she'll know maybe before he knows.

Dragging in a deep breath, then another, trying to stall the panic that's building inside him, threatening to squeeze shut his lungs, he knocks on the door in front of him. It's only a minute wait, but it feels like an eternity.

And then the door opens and Peter Hale is giving him a curious look.

"I need help," Stiles blurts out.

"You have an Alpha, go ask him."

"Can't." He knows he must look increasingly more and more panicked when the curiosity on Peter's face is replaced by concern--or what, at least, looks like concern. Stiles is pretty sure Peter Hale doesn't care about anyone but himself.

But, he does stand back and allow Stiles to enter his apartment.

The space is airy with high ceilings and spotlights, the colors vibrant. There's a subtle scent of the woods in the air, and comfortable looking furniture. Nothing like Derek's dank loft.

He must be gaping because Peter cocks an eyebrow and asks, "What? You really did think I lived in some underground lair or a half-abandoned warehouse like my nephew?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Stiles goes further into the living room, but doesn't take a seat. He isn't surprised when Peter sits regally in a wingback chair covered in navy and crimson stripes and crosses one leg over the other.

"So, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Stiles' mind goes blank, his tongue stills, and he just stares at the older man until he rolls his eyes and points to the sofa. 

"Sit."

Stiles sits, dragging his hands into his lap and together to keep them from fidgeting, but he can't stop one leg from bouncing. He's sure it annoys Peter. It's annoying _him_ , but he can't get it to stop.

"Stiles?"

"I need...I..." Taking a shaky breath, he tries again, this time focusing his attention on his trembling knee. "I've been losing time. I'm pretty sure I tried to get someone killed. I'm afraid I may have...hurt someone."

"Who?"

Looking up, he's surprised to see the curiosity back on Peter's face. "What?"

"Who did you try to have killed?" Peter asks succinctly.

"Um...this new girl at school, Kira."

"What proof do you have?"

Launching into a rambling explanation, including the sacrifice to the Nemeton and the darkness inside him, and brandishing the key like a knife, Stiles hopes he's making sense. When his voice finally trails away Peter is nodding and tapping a finger against his lower lip.

"Do you know why you would have done this? Why you want this girl dead?"

"No clue. She's...nice."

"Is it possible you see her as a rival for Scott's affections?"

"No. I would have gone after Allison if that was the case. He's still hung up on her."

"Hm..."

"Do you believe me?" Stiles asks a bit frantically.

"Actually, I do. Even before your adventure with the Nemeton, there was darkness in you. It's why I wanted you willingly in my pack. We would have been glorious together," Peter sighs.

None of that makes Stiles feel any better.

"But, you said this happened nearly a week ago. What brought you to my door today?"

"I...I sleepwalked last night. Even put my shoes on. I don't know where I went or what I did. I'm...What if I hurt someone?"

"What if you killed someone?"

He can feel himself paling, but it's not a new thought, and slowly he nods.

"In almost all cases, killers are eventually caught. With your father both in the know and actually good at his job, he would probably catch you. On the other hand, you are even smarter than he is and might just be one of those rare ones who gets away with murder."

"I don't want to get away with murder," Stiles protests. "Jesus, if I did...did hurt someone, I'd turn myself in."

"But you haven't turned yourself in over siccing this Barrow on the girl."

At that truth his stomach churns.

"Because in the end the only harm came to an escaped murderer, right?"

He swallows hard, but can only nod, eyes wide. He feels...lost.

"Am I here to be your confessor, Stiles, or something else?" Peter asks shrewdly, the finger again tapping on his lower lip. The sight is almost mesmerizing.

"I want you to stop me."

"Kill you?"

"If...if..." Stiles collapses against the back of the couch, rubbing his tired eyes. He feels exhausted and overburdened all the time, but he hoped that, after revealing the truth to someone, the weight would lift a bit.

It hasn't.

"Make me turn myself in. Make sure my dad knows how to contain me. I can't die on him, though, no matter how much I'll destroy his life by being arrested for murder. I can't leave him alone."

"Then we need to make sure you don't get to that point, correct?"

Slowly Stiles nods.

"Why did you come to me?"

Taking his hands from his face, he looks over at Peter and whispers, "You won't care if you hurt me."

A slow smile creeps across the werewolf's face, and a shiver goes down Stiles' spine. "Do you know what you need?"

"You to stop me from hurting anyone," Stiles snaps because suddenly he's afraid.

"You need discipline."

Eyes widening in incredulity, he asks, "You're going to spank me?"

"If necessary, but, no, what I'm talking about is control. You giving me control."

"Like, with Dom/sub stuff? With safe words and ropes and gags?"

"That's playing. We won't be playing. This isn't a pre-negotiated scene."

"Safe, sane, consensual," he argues and Peter snorts.

"And you'd come out of subspace and go merrily on your way to kill someone."

"But..." The problem is, he doesn't really have an argument for that. Peter's right. Even though the part of him that's lurked around BDSM websites is screaming at him that giving himself over to Peter without any safeguards is wrong, Stiles knows he's in too much trouble to just scene.

Another shiver goes through him. "What if you...what if you do something I really don't like or you hurt me more than I can take?" he chokes out.

"Then you have to trust that I'll stop when you ask me."

"I don't trust you!"

"Yes you do, or you wouldn't be here."

"No one else would do this for me," he cries passionately. "God, I'm just so tired." His hands rub over his sore eyes again.

"Then how about this for a truth, Stiles? If I hurt you, break you past the point you can take, what will Scott do to me?"

Oh.

Yeah.

Slowly he nods in understanding and agrees with a whispered, "Okay."

"My room is at the end of the hall. Get undressed and lie on your stomach on the bed."

Fear churns in him, but a lot of it is fear of what he might do if he just walks out the door, so Stiles pushes himself to his feet and trudges down the hall.

The bedroom is as elegant and neat as the living room, done in mossy greens and ivory, with a dark wood, four poster bed. Another shiver goes through him as he pictures himself tied spread-eagled to those posts.

He really has no clue what Peter will do to him. He's afraid to ask, though he figures he won't be leaving this apartment a virgin, not with the nudity and the bed. 

He's not sure how he feels about that. Grossed out would be the appropriate response, but that's not it. There's wariness, a good dose of fear, but also curiosity. Peter is attractive, sexy even. Long before Caitlin asked him if he liked boys, Stiles figured out he was bi, so that's not an issue. Of course, Peter is old and pervy, but Stiles can admire, along with his physique, his dry wit, sarcastic tongue and intelligence.

And his ruthlessness.

In the end, that's what brought him here. Peter will do what's necessary.

Stiles just hopes he hasn't made the biggest mistake of his life, though, he's pretty sure he has.

Taking a deep breath, he strips off his clothes, piling them neatly on a chair, then crawls onto the bed. The mattress is firm, the pillows stuffed with down. Stretching out on his stomach, he buries his face in one and waits.

End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter lays down the rules and he and Stiles begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. I'm an Olympics junkie and they pretty much consumed my brain the last couple weeks. Please note additional tags and remember that this not sane or safe BDSM for a reason. Also, there's no Nogkitsune here, just the darkness from the Nemeton in a different way.

Stiles awakens to a hand stroking over his back. Groggy and confused he blinks up to find that the room is dark except for one lamp lit on the far side of the bed. Then he remembers and he's even more confused. Turning his head the other way he's confronted with a leg and a hip sitting next to him. He lets his eyes drift up and isn't surprised to find Peter watching him.

He is surprised by everything else.

"You let me sleep?"

"You're exhausted and scared out of your mind." Peter's hand stills on the small of his back and Stiles fights the need to squirm--whether it's away from the touch or into it, he's not sure. The hand pats him, then lifts as Peter stands. "Get dressed. Dinner will be ready in five minutes."

Completely confused now, Stiles watches him leave the bedroom, before rolling off the bed and staggering into the adjoining bathroom.

A few minutes later, dressed, but shoeless--because he has a feeling the night won't end with dinner--he follows the aroma of home cooked food to the kitchen where there's a two person table set in a bow window. There are plates and silverware and, Jesus, flowers on it. Even placemats and cloth napkins. When Peter points from the stove to a chair, Stiles sits and waits while his plate if filled with some kind of chicken and rice dish with broccoli and a salad on the side. There's no bottle of dressing but he can see oil glinting on the dark green leaves. No iceberg lettuce here.

Peter sets a glass of ice water in front of him, before taking the place across from him with a glass of wine for himself. "You can eat. It's not poisoned," he says with a smirk when Stiles hesitates.

Giving him a glare, he picks up his fork and takes a bite of salad--yep, oil and some kind of vinegar and herb.

"When will your father expect you?"

A clock on the night stand had shown him it was just past seven. "Ten or so. He's on patrol tonight."

"Good. You slept for over two hours. Feeling at all refreshed?"

"Um, I guess." He cuts into the chicken which nearly falls apart it's so tender. "Wow, this is good."

"My sister was too busy learning to be Alpha to learn to cook so that fell to me. I enjoy it," Peter adds with a slight shoulder shrug before sipping his wine. 

"Why did you let me sleep?"

"Not what you expected?"

"No." The smile on Peter's face is making him uncomfortable so he ducks his eyes to his plate and takes another bite.

"I want you in as right a mind as you can be before you truly commit to this. So, you have until after dinner and you've washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen to think about what you're asking and what you're getting into. Then, if you still want this, we have at least an hour before you need to leave."

"That's not enough time," Stiles says dully, afraid again.

"It's not going to work in one hour or a hundred, Stiles. You're a minor. I can't keep you locked away. Obviously you don't want your father or your friends to know. You have school, responsibilities. What I can do for you is give you coping mechanisms for when you're not here with me. It's all we can do if you don't want to be locked up or killed."

That actually makes sense. Obviously he can't just become Peter's sex slave or prisoner or whatever. But anything has to be better than what's been happening. "I don't need to think about it. I already agreed. The more time we have tonight, the better."

"The kitchen will still need cleaning," is Peter's cool reply and, at that tone, Stiles lifts his eyes and sees that coolness reflected in pale blue eyes.

Oh.

Discipline.

He nods in understanding and returns to his meal.

When they're done eating, Stiles rises to clear the table, and Peter hands him his empty wine glass and says, "Save the leftovers. There are containers in the cabinet beside the dishwasher. Don't use it, though. I want you to hand wash and dry the dishes. When you're done, if you still want this, return to my bedroom."

Stiles nods and Peter leaves the kitchen. A bit confused as to why he has to hand wash everything when there's a perfectly good dishwasher, he still does it, finding the repetition of scrub, rinse, dry oddly calming. When he's done and the counters and stove are wiped down, the food stored in the refrigerator, he dries his hands and turns nervous eyes towards the clock on the stove.

It's almost 8:30.

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, Stiles hangs the towel over the oven handle, and turns off the lights before leaving the kitchen.

The bedroom door is open, only the one bedside lamp lit, and Peter's sitting in the lone chair by the window, reading. He's wearing only his jeans.

Stiles gulps again. The wolf's arms are muscular, his chest broad. He's strong.

He could hurt Stiles so badly.

As he hovers just inside the doorway, Peter sets aside the book and looks up, then gracefully stands. "I'm going to check on the kitchen. Undress again and kneel on the floor at the end of the bed, hands behind your back."

A shiver goes through him, but Stiles nods and once Peter is out of the room, yanks his clothes off, but then neatly folds them again and, this time, places them on top of the dresser in case Peter wants to sit in the chair. From the state of the rooms he's seen, the werewolf obviously likes things neat and tidy. No reason to annoy him with scattered clothing.

Ignoring the urge to cover his nudity and taking a deep breath, he goes to his knees at the end of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back. The carpet is plush and soft; he barely feels his weight. He wonders what it would be like to kneel on the hardwood of the living room.

He wonders if he'll find out.

Closing his eyes, Stiles forces himself to breathe evenly and wait patiently, but fear of the unknown is beginning to bubble in his stomach, and he can't help but worry over what may happen next.

He still expects sex, but this position...? 

The door closes softly and he feels a hand on his head, fingers twining through his hair and he gulps yet again.

"You did a good job on the kitchen."

"Thank you," spills out instinctively.

The fingers tighten just a fraction. "In here, once you've taken this position and until I say otherwise, you call me sir."

"Yes, sir."

The fingers loosen and pat, and Stiles opens his eyes to stare blankly across the bed until Peter turns his head and tips it up. The werewolf's eyes shine in the dimly lit room.

"Stiles, I want you to know I'm not a novice. I have done this before. Did you suspect that before coming here?"

"No, sir." Psycho, yes; Dom, no.

"So you assumed I simply would hurt you." Stiles can only nod at that, his eyes sliding down to the frown on Peter's face, and then he winces as the fingers at his chin tighten. "That was very risky because I can hurt you very easily, Stiles, but that's only one method of achieving the end you seek. You don't really know what that is, do you?" The frown fades, the tone turns compassionate, and the fingers leave.

Confused and lost, Stiles dips his head and shakes it.

"I could beat you until you're bloody, fuck you until you're sobbing, but that's not going to work."

The fear magnifies, not from what Peter says, but from the thought that he might not do that and that's what Stiles might need. He just doesn't know. "Please, oh God, please, Pe--sir," he chokes out, stumbling over the words, his hands coming round to grab the footboard in desperation. He really doesn't know _what_ he needs.

Peter's hand returns to his head, stroking through his hair, and he murmurs, soothingly, "It's alright, Stiles. We'll figure it out together."

Unbidden, tears spill from Stiles' eyes and, with one hand, he swipes at them as he tries to control his breathing again, the other hand still on the footboard, anchoring him on his knees. 

Seemingly undisturbed by his crying, Peter leans against the bedpost and crosses his arms over his chest. "So, some basic logistics and rules. Do you think three times a week will be enough?"

"I...Yes, sir." Maybe. He has no clue.

"So, Monday, Wednesday and Friday after school at least until lacrosse practice begins. I'll expect you by four unless you text me to tell me you're running late or can't make it. Either is fine, as long as I know. I'll give you a key and my cell phone number. If you need me at other times, we can arrange for that as well. Okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Unless I say otherwise, you'll come in here, strip and take this position, even if I'm not home or here in this room. You'll wait." He frowns again, his eyes dropping to where Stiles' hands are gripped around the footboard, and Stiles' breath hitches as he realizes what he's done. "I'll give you rules and expect them to be obeyed, even if they seem arbitrary or capricious. If you break them, you'll be punished. What rule did you break, Stiles?"

"I...I was to keep my hands behind my back, sir," he replies, his voice small and breathy and fear spikes through him.

"Have you ever been spanked?"

"No, sir." Feeling his eyes widen--in anticipation or fear?--he pries his fingers free, but he's already in trouble, so he just lets his hands dangle as he waits.

"I don't have any equipment here, but I'll buy some. For now, you have the choice of twelve with my hand or belt."

With a werewolf's strength, both are going to hurt, but Stiles stammers out, "Hand, sir," and Peter nods. 

"Place yourself over the end of the bed." As Stiles pushes himself to his feet on trembling legs to do so, he continues, "It's instinctive to try to block the blows, but don't. That will earn you six more every time you do it. I'd tie you down, but part of discipline is learning not to do something. You can makes as much noise as you want--the walls are thick--and you can beg, but I won't stop. Do you understand?"

His "Yes, sir," is muffled in the bedding, but then he turns his head and takes a shuddering breath. The bed depresses next to him and he feels rough denim and warmth press against his side, then a hand caresses his naked ass, sending fresh shivers through him.

The first blow catches him off guard though and he yelps in surprise at the burst of pain in his left butt cheek. The second one on the other side comes quickly as well and Stiles digs his fingers into the bedspread to hold himself down. When the third overlaps the first, he bites back a cry of pain and tries not to wriggle away, forces himself to keep his hands in the bedding. God, it hurts.

The crack of the fourth makes his ass both ache and burn as his skin begins to heat, and with the fifth tears flood his eyes and he chokes out a gasp of shock and pain.

By the time the twelfth falls on his upper thigh and the undercurve of his ass, he's shivering and crying because it hurts so much, yet...

If just for a moment, his mind is clear.

Peter's hand smoothes up his back to the nape of his neck where his fingers caress sensitive skin for a minute, then he murmurs, "Very good, Stiles," and Stiles feels a weird pride. "Can you sit up?"

Sniffling, he nods, and, though he knows it's going to hurt, pushes up and turns so that he's sitting on the end of the bed next to Peter. He hisses at the fiery sting in his ass and wonders how on earth he's going to be able to sit through classes tomorrow, but then Peter's hand returns to the nape of his neck and takes it possessively. Instinctively Stiles relaxes and turns his attention to the other man.

"Where were we? Oh, yes, logistics. So, from the moment you enter this room until I tell you discipline is over, you obey me or you'll be punished. The forms of discipline, the punishments you receive, will be my choice alone." He glances down to Stiles' lap where his hands have instinctively covered his genitals and Peter's free hand brushes them away. "You'll be naked for all discipline, so get used to it." 

Blushing, Stiles nods but doesn't try to cover himself again and Peter's attention returns to his face. 

"Depending on how long you have each day, our session, let's call them that, will last as long as I say. You'll trust that I'll know your limits, and I do understand that'll be hard for you at first, but every time you say no or try to stop me from doing something, you'll be punished. That includes sex."

Stiles feels his heart stutter at the thought of being forced into sex against his will, but he agreed to no safe words...Slowly he nods.

"Sex will never be a punishment, Stiles. You might not like or want everything I do to you, but it's not a punishment. I know you don't understand that right now; it's okay." Their eyes meet for a minute, then Peter smiles briefly and his fingers caress the nape of Stiles' neck sending fresh shivers through him, a bit of fear, but a bit of something new, too,something he's not ready to categorize. "Once a session is over you can say no, you can leave, you can yell at me, whatever you need. Once a session is over, it's over for that day or night, and you won't be punished and we won't start again. I expect a lot of what I'll do will make you angry, will make you cry. We'll deal with all of it. And once the session is over, even if you stay in the apartment, even if you come back to this room and sleep in my bed, you can say no to anything."

That confuses Stiles, because Peter told him to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen earlier, and he opens his mouth to ask, but then closes it because he's not sure he's allowed to ask questions.

"I can see you want to ask something. It's okay. As long as it's respectful, you can ask me anything during sessions. I can't promise that, if you do it to try to distract me or stall me, I won't punish you, but I will answer all I can."

"You told me to clean the kitchen and I guess I thought it was a form of discipline, but..."

"You could have said no to that, but it's a good thing for you to live your life outside of this room with routine and discipline. You're ADHD, right?" At Stiles' nod, he continues, "Focus is hard for you. When you're unfocused, the darkness inside you can take over much easier. And, I did cook dinner, so you cleaning up was only fair. We won't spend every minute in this room, so if I ask you to clean or do your homework or turn off some inane music video show, I hope you'll do it, but I won't punish you if you don't. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, sir. I...I didn't mind doing the dishes. My mind kind of went calm."

Peter's smile sends that weird proud feeling through Stiles again. "Okay, do you have any other questions? We have a half hour or so before you'll need to get ready to go home." 

Stiles shakes his head and the butterflies return to his stomach. A half hour...A lot can happen in a half hour.

"Good. Stand up and put your hands behind your back again."

As Stiles obeys, wincing at the stretch of sore muscles and the burn of his tender ass, Peter goes to his dresser and removes an item from one of the top drawers. It's a tie.

"I don't have any binding supplies either, so this'll have to do." At a gesture, Stiles turns away from Peter, and nibbles at his lower lip as the silk tie goes around and between his wrists, before knotting just over his palms. Peter takes his elbow and guides him over just to the side and front of the chair. "Kneel." As he drops to his knees, carefully placing his ass on his heels, Peter sits and reaches for his book, then pats his thigh. "Put your head here and close your eyes. For the next half hour I want you just to be, Stiles. Let your mind wander. If you feel the darkness, it's okay. You can't do anything about it. You're bound, on your knees and helpless."

The crooning tone of his voice is matched by the gentle stroke of his hand through Stiles' hair when he puts his cheek down on the firm, warm thigh, and lets his eyes drift shut.

"The session is over, Stiles," Peter says softly, and, stunned and dopey, Stiles lifts his head and blinks up at him.

"Did I...fall asleep?"

"I don't think so. You don't remember what happened?" The concern there is surprising, but, Stiles is afraid, not of Peter, but the darkness. It came on so quickly and...

"I blacked out," he replies dully.

"You didn't do anything," Peter stresses as he helps him up and starts to untie him. "You obeyed beautifully, barely even shifted on your knees, even though it had to hurt to sit on your heels." His hand pats at Stiles' sore ass, making him hiss and glare.

Peter just gives him a benign smile in return, then tugs him onto his lap where Stiles flails and groans in pain until the werewolf pins his arms at his sides.

"What are you doing?"

"Two things you need to research before Friday night," Peter says against the top of his head before placing a kiss there that makes Stiles blush again. "Subspace, which I doubt you'll achieve any time soon, but I want you to learn about as that's your goal, and aftercare, which will always happen, Stiles. I'm a Dom. I'm not that much of a sadist and I'm not at all sadistic. There is a difference."

Oh.

"Um...aftercare, I know a little. That's when you make sure the sub is okay, right?"

"Yes. In some cases, it'll be this or cuddling in bed or a warm bath if you're particularly sore. We'll talk. You can yell at me if you need to. We only have about ten minutes tonight but I know how to gauge how much time you'll need and will stop the session at the appropriate time. And, Stiles," another kiss, "If you need to cry, that's perfectly normal."

That sounds weird, but Stiles just nods and closes his eyes again. Despite the pain in his ass, this feels kind of good. Peter's hands and hold are gentle, he's nuzzling against the top of Stiles' head, and he smells good.

Yeah, this is weird, but...it's okay, too.

End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The relief from the first session with Peter doesn't last and Stiles is nearly desperate by the time school ends on Friday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck, I know. I should never start WIPs. I have been working on this part for over a month, and I finally decided to end in the middle of a session as it was getting quite long. That said, I haven't any more written so I have no idea when I will get back to it. I'm the slowest writer in the world, it seems, but I hope it's worth it. Also please remember that there are no safe words here, no agreements. It's not safe, sane or consensual. There's also no nogitsune--this is all from the darkness of the Nemeton.

Stiles wakes up confused until he realizes he's confused because his alarm is going off. Flapping a hand out from beneath the covers he turns it off. The digital numbers read 7:00. It's morning.

He slept through the night?

Delving into his memories, he tries to figure out if that was true or if he had any nightmares, but he doesn't remember waking until now.

He does remember...

Blushing, he rolls onto his back, then winces at the ache in his ass and quickly rolls back onto his side.

So, that really happened.

In the light of day--literally--he can't believe he went to Peter for help, but his logical side understands it worked.

He slept.

And all that happened to him was he got a spanking.

Well, a lot more than that. He'd never seriously thought about trying BDSM. He'd done a bit of research because he's interested in everything sexual, and most of it hadn't squicked him, but he wouldn't have pictured himself in a Dom/sub relationship.

Of course he hadn't pictured himself haunted by a damn tree stump either.

A knock on his door startles him out of his thoughts. "Yeah?"

His dad pokes his head in, a smile on his face. "Hey, kiddo. I didn't hear you wake up at all. Did you sleep?" There's so much hope on that weathered face that Stiles nods and smiles.

"Yeah. At least, I don't remember waking up till my alarm."

"That's great, Stiles. I gotta head to work. Make sure you eat something, okay?"

"Yeah, dad."

After his father leaves, closing the door behind him, Stiles rolls from his bed and stretches, wincing at his sore muscles. Carefully he places a hand on his ass and presses inwards. It hurts, but nothing sharp. If he's careful sitting, he should be able to get through the day.

And, for the first time in weeks, he actually has some energy from getting enough sleep.

He's also hungry, which is new, too. The last breakfast he ate was on Sunday when his dad made him eat a pancake.

*****

Waiting for his poptarts to heat up, Stiles leans against the kitchen counter and finds he likes the slight ache it causes in his hip. Because he doesn't understand why he likes that, he blushes. He never thought he was masochistic.

In the bathroom before his shower he used a hand mirror and the bathroom mirror to examine his ass and was surprised there was just a bit of discoloration, no dark bruises. He wondered how red the marks were right after. His ass had felt like it was on fire and Peter hadn't held back at all, but there were only twelve smacks. That really isn't that many.

He wonders how many he can take.

And if the next time it'll be with a belt or paddle or a cane.

He looked up caning once. It sounded horribly painful.

But the pain did wonders for him the night before so...

The aroma of strawberry filling cooking brings him out of his thoughts and he takes his poptarts out of the toaster, wraps them in a paper towel, grabs his backpack and heads for his jeep.

His stomach growls in anticipation and he smiles.

*****

"You look good, dude."

Stiles gives his bestfriend a side-eye. "I always look good." When Scott rolls his eyes, he smirks. 

"I mean, the circles under your eyes aren't as pronounced and is that poptart on your breath?

Snorting in amusement, Stiles slams his locker shut and they head for English and their non-psychotic--they hope--substitute teacher of the day. "Yeah, I slept and ate. Feeling pretty good."

"That's great," Scott replies, obviously relieved. "Whatever you're doing, keep it up."

"Will do."

******

But, maybe because he's worried or maybe just because it's inevitable, the nightmares return that night and he wakes up screaming once. His dad, who mostly works day and evening shifts to be there for this, holds him through the shaking and whimpering, trying to comfort him, until he finally drifts to sleep again.

Waking groggily to the blare of his alarm, Stiles forces himself to eat a small bowl of cereal, but his appetite is gone. He'd eaten regular meals the day before but now all he feels is a light nausea and lethargy.

A little over twenty-four hours of relief was all he got from the first session. God, he hopes the effects of tonight's last longer. 

The day goes by in a blur. He remembers Scott frowning as he picked at his lunch of tator tots and meatloaf, Lydia giving him concerned looks as he drifted away during AP Physics and would have screwed up their experiment if his lab partner was anyone other than her, and Coach yelling at him for failing completely at the rope climb in gym, but otherwise, he drifts through his classes until, during the final one--Spanish--he begins to feel anticipation building and gets jittery, nearly earning himself detention for speaking out of turn for the tenth time.

Finally, the day ends and he rushes from the building to his car, needing to get away, to get to Peter.

It's Friday. His dad is working a double and won't be home until after midnight. He'll have nearly eight hours.

*****

Using his key, Stiles enters Peter's quiet apartment and drops his backpack in the entryway. He toes off his shoes and pads in sock feet down the hall and into the bedroom. There's no sign of Peter but Stiles can feel his presence. After using the bathroom, including a new-in-package toothbrush that's sitting on the counter, he strips off his clothes and places them a top the dresser. A glance towards the door shows him that he's still alone, and, taking a deep breath, he sinks to his knees at the end of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back.

With every second that passes his breathing quickens and he starts to count them in his head. At nearly two hundred, he's panting, nibbling at his lower lip, his body twitching, but, then...he focuses on his hands, imagining them bound by more than his own fingers. He feels the carpet beneath his knees, his own nude body comfortable in the warmth of the room.

He calms.

The door closes behind him and a hand runs across the top of his head.

"Good boy," Peter murmurs. "Look at me." Craning his head, Stiles looks up. Peter is once again wearing only trousers, this time a pair of dark gray ones that suit is coloring and the bright blue of his eyes. "How long can you stay?"

"Until about midnight, sir."

Peter's eyes sparkle and Stiles feels an odd contentment that the older man is pleased.

"So, did you do the research I asked?" Turning, Peter leans back against the bedpost and loosely crosses his arms over his chest.

Stiles nods and, when encouraged, shares all he learned about subspace and aftercare, taking care not to ramble too much. It helps that he's had it all laid out in his head since the night before.

"As I mentioned, I doubt you'll reach subspace anytime soon, but we'll work on it. How did you sleep?"

"I slept the first night through, sir. Last night, not so much." 

"And eating?"

"Again, pretty good the first day but then today..." He shakes his head and Peter reaches out and stops him with one hand on his cheek.

"This is actually better news than I expected. It tells me you're not too far gone."

Alarm hits. "Was that a possibility?"

"Unfortunately. Stop worrying, Stiles. In here, that's for me. Now," Peter switches topics briskly, "I went shopping yesterday and picked up several items we'll need. I know you've never been with a man, but have you fingered yourself?"

Feeling himself blushing, he shakes his head and nervously licks his lips. 

"Then we'll start slowly."

Oh God. Stiles isn't sure he's ready for this at all. Tracking Peter as he moves around the room, opening a drawer in his dresser and the closet in turn, he bites into his lower lip, but freezes when he sees the wolf cock his head and scent the air before turning bright blue eyes and a frown on him.

"Licking your lips is endearing. Biting them isn't. Stop that."

"You have to expect me to be nervous...sir," he almost snaps, biting back automatically saying Peter's name. "Um...sorry." His eyes dip.

"For what?"

"Um...speaking out of turn?" 

"If I didn't want you to speak, I'd gag you." Stiles eyes jerk upwards again and he's relieved to see a smirk on Peter's face as he comes back to the bed. "All I ask is respect. So far, you're doing fine."

Again that weird contented feeling seeps in past his nerves and he relaxes.

"Now, I want you to lay down on your stomach in the middle of the bed, feet at the very end, and stretch your arms over your head."

Climbing up from the bottom, the footboard not a hindrance as it's slightly lower than the mattress, Stiles obeys. When he stretches out, his fingers brush the headboard which consists of thick, vertical wooden rungs. The bed next to his head depresses and he watches as Peter lays out two short pieces of soft looking rope.

"These are silk. They won't damage your skin. Sometimes we'll use rope that will, but not today." As he explains, he expertly wraps the rope around each wrist and ties him to the rungs a shoulder width apart. "You may eventually feel some strain on your shoulders. You may make as much noise as you want. If you verbally complain too much, I'll have to punish you."

Stiles opens his mouth to ask how much is too much, but then closes it, because he has a feeling the line may be arbitrary. Wriggling his fingers, he tests the bonds and they're tight but not uncomfortable. Slowly he starts to relax only to tense up again when Peter brings two other items into his line of sight. One, a bottle of lube, is familiar. The other, well he knows what it is...

"We'll start with the small plug."

Feeling his ass cheeks clench, he blurts out, "That's small?" It's red with a bulge in the middle about an inch in diameter and a wide base. It's _not_ small.

Peter doesn't reprimand him, just smirks and sets the anal plug in Stiles' line of sight, before moving down the bed and straddling Stiles' thighs. "You're going to need to relax or it's going to hurt," he says patiently.

Gulping, Stiles tries to relax but he's never even had a finger up there. He can feel the panic coming on and fights it back. He agreed to this. He needs to be grateful that Peter didn't just go straight to fucking him. He needs to _relax_.

A hand starts to rub his ass, and he tries to breathe with it, then a slick thumb brushes over his crease, parts him, and finds his hole.

Oh...

A shiver of pleasure goes through him. He never really thought about how sensitive that bit of flesh is.

"Good boy," Peter croons and the thumb pushes past the tight ring of muscles.

Stiles gasps and grasps the ropes. The thumb wriggles and rubs and it feels weird but not actually bad. When a second finger pushes in, he's ready for it, finally relaxing his muscles enough that there's no true pain, just some discomfort. Gradually he feels himself loosen and then a third finger presses against his hole and he tightens again.

"Relax."

Swallowing hard, he squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates on the fingers inside him, the other one wanting in, and he lets the muscles go slack. It hurts and he groans, but stays limp and still, letting Peter push into him to the base of his fingers. When they begin to spread apart, he groans again. It hurts more but he knows this is necessary. The bulge of the plug is about the circumference of the three fingers formed into a cone, and he doesn't know how long it'll be inside him.

He's also a bit surprised that he's not turned on at all, though when Peter presses one finger against a certain spot--his prostate?--a shiver of something like pleasure goes up his spine. His dick doesn't react, though.

Finally, Peter removes his fingers and Stiles takes a deep breath. His ass aches a bit, but it's not bad, and now he feels kind of empty. With the first push of the tip of the plug, that feeling goes away and he grunts at the pressure and fullness as the thing slips inside him.

"Okay?"

"Yes, sir," he pants in response, his fingers clenching around the ropes holding him down. The plug feels huge and he feels stuffed, but, now that it's seated, it's pressing against his prostate and that almost feels good.

There's a pat on his ass and then the bed shifts. Turning his head, Stiles watches Peter walk over to the chair, sit, and pick up a book, in which he seems to become immediately engrossed. There's also a glass of red wine on the table and Peter sips at it occasionally.

Time passes.

As Peter predicted, Stiles' shoulders began to ache. He knows he can relieve the soreness by moving up the bed, but Peter put him in this position for a reason. Pressing his toes into the bedding, he forces himself to breathe evenly, but finally he has to squirm.

His dick rubs against the bedspread but it's too soft--there's no friction. He's not sure he wants any, but the plug shifts, presses harder into his prostate, and he gulps at the frisson of pleasure. It's brief, but there.

He's not sure he wants that.

Breathing again, through his nose, he tries to ignore the ache in his shoulders, the way his fingers are clenching and unclenching, the trembling in his arms, the stiffness in his neck, but it all just gets more intense with every minute.

How long has he been here?

Glancing over Stiles sees that the glass is half-full and Peter is reading. Ignoring him. But, he knows the wolf really isn't.

This is discipline.

Stiles squirms again, spreading his legs slightly, trying to do anything to alleviate the aches that are becoming pain. Something about crucifixion passes through his mind--necks breaking from arms over the head in suspension, but he's not suspended. His neck won't break.

It still hurts and it doesn't help that he has to hold his head up to breathe because it's either that or press his mouth into his arm or the bed. Finally, he can't hold it in any longer and groans in pain.

Surprisingly, Peter's there in an instant, straddling his back and leaning forward to untie the ropes. Confused, Stiles watches as the older man brings each arm down, rubbing the sore muscles of his shoulders and biceps. He sighs in relief and then groans as the rubbing fingers find his neck.

"You did very well, Stiles," Peter says as he moves to sit next to him, lounging back against the pillows and headboard.

Carefully turning his sore neck, Stiles asks, "How long?"

"Nearly an hour." He sounds pleased and Stiles gives him a hesitant smile. "Were you present the whole time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. And, how do you feel?"

He's not really sure. The plug is still inside him, but it doesn't hurt. He's still not aroused. "I'm not sure," he finally answers as Peter's giving him an expectant look.

"That's fine. I'm not surprised. Now, get on your hands and knees." The voice going from gentle to a firm order surprises him and he scrambles to obey. Immediately his arms shake and he locks them tightly. When Peter cocks his head to run his eyes down his torso, Stiles feels his cheeks warm and he ducks his eyes and nibbles on his lower lip, then stops when he remembers Peter doesn't like that.

Examining why it matters to him if Peter doesn't like something will have to wait, though, as the older man moves gracefully to his knees and takes Stiles' shoulders, lifting him up, then down so he's sitting on his haunches. The anal plug shifts again and a moan breaks from him.

That felt...good.

"Put your hands on your thighs and spread your legs a bit."

Obeying, Stiles whimpers as his prostate is massaged with each movement and his dick starts to twitch. When Peter's hand wraps around it and starts to pump at a quick, steady pace, he gasps and turns bright red. With wide eyes he stares past Peter's shoulder and nervously licks his lips. He's hard in just a few minutes and he wonders why Peter's doing this, until he stops, his hand tight around the base of Stiles' cock, and a small, leather object is held in front of his face.

Oh.

"I take it you know what this is?"

Licking his suddenly dry lips, Stiles nods nervously, then watches as the circlet is snapped tightly around the base of his cock, keeping him erect, but too tight...

Oh.

Peter's fingers tease over the slit and Stiles gulps and shivers in pleasure. The first hand other than his own on his dick and it's amazing and...he's not going to get to come.

His face heats even more.

Rising from the bed, Peter helps Stiles off and to his feet then over to the chair where he guides him to his knees. His cock throbs and he pants, but he doesn't touch himself, just fists his hands on his thighs. Peter pets his head then heads for the door.

"I'm going to get us something to eat. I want to find you in this exact position. Do not remove the ring or the plug."

"Yes, sir." He knows he sounds a bit disgruntled, but he's not used to denying himself an orgasm in this manner. Forcing down a boner when he's in school or some other inappropriate place, sure, but he can't force this one down.

Peter leaves and Stiles stares at the chair, trying to ignore his desire and the ache in his ass and shoulders and...

A bit of resentment creeps him and he wonders at it. He agreed to all this. True, he hadn't known what he was agreeing to, but he expected sex and discipline and, he guesses, denial goes along with all that.

He just wonders how long before he gets to come.

_If_ he gets to come.

Stiles is not happy about that possibility.

End Chapter 3


End file.
